


F(A/I)LL

by Xairathan



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22707694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xairathan/pseuds/Xairathan
Summary: In traditional Xairathan fashion there's an omitted smut scene about 80% of the way through that gets written as an extracanonical omake and then posted upon completion of the ficI was going to post a summary but then I realized the original piece for this doesn't have a summary either due to me being tired when I posted chapter 1 and subsequently too lazy to think of one so we're just going full on no summary this year I guess
Relationships: Oda Nobunaga | Archer/Okita Souji | Sakura Saber
Comments: 1
Kudos: 42





	F(A/I)LL

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Until the Morning Glories Fade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21869584) by [Xairathan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xairathan/pseuds/Xairathan). 



> In traditional Xairathan fashion there's an omitted smut scene about 80% of the way through that gets written as an extracanonical omake and then posted upon completion of the fic 
> 
> I was going to post a summary but then I realized the original piece for this doesn't have a summary either due to me being tired when I posted chapter 1 and subsequently too lazy to think of one so we're just going full on no summary this year I guess

Nobunaga descends upon Okita, knees around her hips, one hand following the crest of her cheek. Her touch is dangerously soft. Like Okita, she doesn’t speak. Everything she could want to say is drawn up in her eyes, their red pulsing in time with the flickering embers dying in the hearth. Caught up in their glow, Okita isn’t sure how much of what she sees is the flames, and what’s Nobunaga. It’s all blurred together: her hunger, her passion; the unbridled violence of fire and its destructive wake; the smoky shadows thrown high against the walls. 

Okita reaches up. Her fingers feel their way to Nobunaga’s wrist. Her heart is racing, and she can’t tell if it’s from excitement or fear or some unknown tangling of the two. She knows what it will mean to let Nobunaga continue. She knows as well that Nobunaga would stop; even now Okita could wrench her eyes away or shuffle back, and Nobunaga would retreat with the slightest suggestion of a distance put between them. What unnerves Okita, this sensation wrapping itself tight around her heart: she wants Nobunaga to come even closer. She wants to feel Nobunaga’s fire surrounding her and pulling her up with its smoke, down her throat and in her lungs, a pain that Okita’s sickness could never compare to, distinctly Nobunaga’s. 

Nobunaga’s teeth scrape at the curve of Okita’s neck. Okita shivers, twists her head to the side. Nobunaga’s breath stirs up her hair, stray strands tickling her cheek and the back of her neck. At first, she thinks it’ll be a kiss; when a line of heat shoots from the bite blossoming on her skin down her spine, Okita can’t help but gasp and arc into Nobunaga’s waiting grasp. That’s right, she thinks in a haze of wonder. Nobunaga is by no means inexperienced. To her, this could be just another tryst- but why would Nobunaga be so gentle then; why would she care to nuzzle her cheek against the red marks sucked along the line of Okita’s collarbones, or lift Okita’s arms to plant tender kisses to the faint white marks like ghostly wounds on her pale skin?

Nobunaga’s fingers curl around the shoulders of Okita’s kimono, lingering there. She looks to Okita, waiting- Okita nods, the tightest jerking of her chin, and only then does Nobunaga begin to move again. She slides the robe from Okita’s shoulders, letting it land flat against the futon. Okita remains in her arms, basking in the heat of Nobunaga against her. It’s like a warm bath after a cold autumn downpour. Nobunaga’s heat sinks into the very core of her being, as if she’s not content until she’s left her mark there, too. Okita shifts her weight on her knees, trying to find her balance on the sheets. Nobunaga’s thigh pokes between hers, pressing up into her: Okita stiffens with a shudder and a soft whine, the pads of her fingers working the ridges along Nobunaga’s back. 

“Okita?” Nobunaga whispers to her. “Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes,” Okita answers breathlessly. Despite the trembling in her legs, she doesn’t waver for a second. Nobunaga nods and bends, lowering them both onto the futon. With an awkward wriggle of her legs, she manages to kick off her pants. In some other time, such a motion must have been second nature to Nobunaga. Now, she resettles herself over Okita, caressing the insides of her thighs. Again, Okita finds she can’t look at Nobunaga. To do so would be to acknowledge the reality of this moment, as if Nobunaga’s breath washing over her stomach isn’t tangible enough. 

It’s not that Okita doesn’t believe this is real: it’s that, in those rare imaginings she’d allowed herself to have, she’d never once thought someone could look at her with such unveiled and limitless affection. She’d known from the moment she’d pledged her sword to Kondo that she’d be alone; she’d accepted that whatever relationship she might find would be loveless, convenient. When the tuberculosis had settled in her lungs, Okita had settled with it. No one would find it in themselves to love someone who had already dedicated their final years, nor would Okita ever impress that burden on anyone. Then again, Okita had never imagined Oda Nobunaga to be alive, or that she of all people would be the one to look upon Okita with such a patient smile.

Nobunaga’s hand settles between Okita’s legs. Okita tries to pull them shut on instinct, and finds Nobunaga blocking them. Her eyes intent, her fingers climb towards the peak of Okita’s legs. Okita shivers, clutching at the sheets, trying to brace herself against these new and strange sensations. It’s useless- Nobunaga’s finger trails a light circle around Okita’s folds and presses in, and Okita’s hips jerk against Nobunaga’s hand. Even in those rare moments Okita had succumbed to curiosity, she’d never felt anything like this. Touching herself had only brought her so far; Nobunaga works her with an expert touch, drawing guttural groans from Okita with every thrust of her fingers. 

“N-Nobu,” Okita stutters. Her hand, reaching aimlessly, finds the crook of Nobunaga’s neck. She tugs; their lips meet in a searing kiss. Heat suffuses her body, incomparable to even the worst days of her illness. It’s flame without its burning, Kyoto’s summer without its stickiness, a warmth so tangible that Okita feels it fill her lungs, as though it’s something to be drowned in. She understands: this is how Nobunaga loves. Unrestrained, all-encompassing, just like the fire she carries trapped within that human chest. This is Nobunaga’s love, and all of it is for her. 

“Okita?” Nobunaga says to her. Okita blinks quickly, dispelling silvery hints of tears from her eyes. She nods at Nobunaga, as if to say she’s fine. Her body rocks against Nobunaga’s, moving in time with Nobunaga’s wrist. The sound of crackling fire is replaced by the rustling of sheets and Nobunaga’s labored breathing, the high and quavering moans that Okita sings into the heated air. Nobunaga leans down again to drink some from her lips- if anything, it’s her that these kisses are for, Okita’s sweetness savored in passing moments rippling over Nobunaga’s memories. 

Nobunaga’s fingers turn, her thumb brushing against something hard and slick. Okita yelps into Nobunaga’s mouth, twitching suddenly. She feels the rumble of Nobunaga’s laugh against her chest for just one clear and fleeting second. The whirl of new sensations becomes too much. They blur into an indistinct mass, one with a pulse of its own, hammering faster than Okita’s heart can keep pace with. Dimly, she thinks to reach for Nobunaga’s wrist, and then it’s too late. She’s dispensed with those nameless and innumerable feelings; she’s shouting Nobunaga’s name for the fire to swallow before the heavens hear; she’s surrounded by the sheets and the heaviness of Nobunaga’s body and a mouth covering hers, hot hands caressing her breasts, her hips; she’s Nobunaga’s as much as Nobunaga is entirely devoted to Okita. 

Okita doesn’t know how long she’s gone for, wandering some distant plane of her mind. She only registers her return and the measured winding of Nobunaga’s fingers through her hair. Nobunaga herself is curled around Okita, watching her with a curious expression. Though the fire behind them has long since dwindled, its light still shines through Nobunaga’s gaze: warm, inviting. It can’t be helped, then, if the only natural thing for Okita to do is press her face against Nobunaga’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of sweat and gunpowder. Her eyes fall upon a red circle nipped against Nobunaga’s shoulder, suspiciously fresh. Nobunaga’s enigmatic smile tells her whatever question she might ask will go unanswered, even as it shines clear with happiness.

The room returns to stillness. Neither Okita nor Nobunaga seem willing to break it. They stare into each others’ eyes, as if their multitudes of questions could be answered simply by looking. In the silence, the beating of their hearts rings loud in echoed tandem, straining towards a completion Okita has long since reached, as if that might somehow shift them into an inseparable reality. 

At long last, Nobunaga moves. Her fingers trail the length of Okita’s cheek. Some profound sadness lingers where they touch and tugs at Nobunaga’s smile: so many things left unspoken for the sake of prolonging this momentary dream. There is one thing that can be said, that could only be given voice within these walls. It could only be Okita who says it- for Nobunaga to do it would be an imposition that even now she doesn’t dare make. 

Okita’s lips part. The stirring of her chest, for once, is not a rousing of her illness. It could be something akin to courage, or else those words she’d thought she’d never say. Somehow, it seems easier, if it’s Nobunaga she’d be saying them to, as if two impossible things combining could make them any less so. 

But nothing more is said. Nobunaga tilts her head down. Her lips slot in the space between Okita’s, measured and slow. She takes the words from Okita, leaving a smile in their place. There is nothing Okita could tell Nobunaga that she doesn’t already know, and has left unsaid for the same reasons as Okita. For now, it’s enough for them to lay there in each other’s company. It’s enough to watch the fireworks rise over the horizon and burst in Okita’s eyes, glittering showers of gold like the hair that falls disheveled around Okita’s face. Nobunaga pushes it back- Okita moves in- their eyes slide shut as the world around them fades, becoming nothing more than a muted backdrop to the bursting lights behind their eyelids. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is all the OKNB i had stashed up from before schoolwork got serious y'all are on your own now (or at least until that FGO RPG hits London then I'm never gonna shut up, good thing that's scheduled for -checks watch- summer break and Gudaguda 3?)


End file.
